Just for the record, she still loves you. She wouldn't bother to torture you if she didn't.

It's easy to cry when you realize that everyone you love will reject you or die.

To repeat, the way you get to the huge, impossible yes is, you start collecting a lot of easy, small yeses.

A minute of perfection was worth the effort. A moment was the most you could ever expect from perfection.

I might be a touch of a sadist and a little bit jejune... but at least I'm not a victim, not any longer. I hope. I hope, therefore I am.

Intellectual culture seems to separate high art from low art. Low art is horror or pornography or anything that has a physical component to it and engages the reader on a visceral level and evokes a strong sympathetic reaction. High art is people driving in Volvos and talking a lot. I just don't want to keep those things separate. I think you can use visceral physical experiences to illustrate larger ideas, whether they're emotional or spiritual. I'm trying to not exclude high and low art or separate them.

For sure, even the worst blow job is better than, say, sniffing the best rose ... watching the greatest sunset. Hearing children laugh.